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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25019491">In Sleep He Sang To Me</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/KChan88/pseuds/KChan88'>KChan88</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>She Was Bound to Love You [19]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Bisexual Female Character, Bisexual!Christine, Blood and Injury, F/F, Genderbending, Girls Kissing, Injury Recovery, Lesbian Character, Lesbian!Raoul, Major Character Injury, Medical Trauma, Nightmares, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rule 63</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 06:49:08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>11,103</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25019491</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/KChan88/pseuds/KChan88</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Raoul de Chagny was a woman?</p><p>A series featuring the major events (and a few things in-between) from the Phantom of the Opera, with a gender-bent, lesbian Raoul (and a bisexual Christine). ALW based, with Leroux elements.</p><p>Scene 13: Raoul struggles in the aftermath of the events of the lair, plagued by nightmares. Newspapers print stories. The police ask questions. Relieved by their strange and unexpected freedom, Raoul and Christine confront what happened to them.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Raoul de Chagny/Christine Daaé</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>She Was Bound to Love You [19]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1627735</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>26</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>In Sleep He Sang To Me</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Thank you for all your lovely kind comments on the last chapter! :D It is much appreciated! </p><p>Stray note: I mention Jules Cazot at one point in this chapter, who was the minister of justice in this period.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Raoul wakes up to shouting.</p><p>And pain.</p><p>Oh god, <em>pain</em>.</p><p>It sounds like Philippe shouting, but it’s muffled and she’s too distracted by the ache absolutely <em>throbbing</em> through her entire body to pay her brother shouting too much mind, yet.</p><p>Her eyes fly open, and for a moment she’s not sure where she is.</p><p>Her room. Her bed. Yes. Right. She’s at home. Hence Philippe shouting.</p><p>Where is Christine?</p><p>She pats the bed beside her, she looks and it’s…</p><p>It’s empty.</p><p>Her stomach sinks and she tries sitting up but it,<em> hurts</em>, everything<em> hurts</em>.</p><p>“Christine?” she asks, but her voice is so hoarse and her throat dry, that she’s not sure if anyone can hear her, but the ghost, oh she hears<em> that</em> voice in her head, she hears it purring with pleased rage in her ear. She feels her back pushed up against the cold, hard portcullis, the metal cutting into her skin.</p><p>
  <em>Shhh. Quiet now. I need to speak to Christine about what’s to be done with you. </em>
</p><p>She finally succeeds in sitting up, but it makes her head pound like her blood doesn’t want to stay in her veins, a particular pain taking root just behind her right eye. She rests her face in her hands and then…</p><p>Then she hears the voice she wanted to hear.</p><p>“Raoul?” Christine asks, dashing over to the bed from the bathroom. “Are you all right?”</p><p>“Christine,” Raoul repeats, her voice barely audible as she looks up. “I…I woke up and you weren’t here, and I panicked.”</p><p>Christine puts a careful, gentle kiss on Raoul’s temple. “How are you feeling?”</p><p>There’s more shouting before Raoul can answer, louder than before.</p><p>“I <em>said</em> you may come back when I summon you. My sister nearly died last night, and she’s in no state to speak to you this morning.”</p><p>Yes, that is indeed Philippe. She was not imagining things, earlier.</p><p>The words <em>my sister nearly died last night</em> strike Raoul well and fully like lighting in her chest.</p><p>It’s not a lie. She remembers laying in the carriage and wondering with delirium if she would make it home at all.</p><p>Last night comes back to her in shreds and snatches and she can’t quite bear to think of it all. There are things she would rather not recall—the rope around her neck, certainly, the fist-fight, but most of all the blurry image of Christine kissing the ghost, of Christine on her knees begging him while Raoul gasped for air, her vision going black around the edges. She felt consciousness, life itself, slipping away, trying trying <em>trying</em> to hold on until she knew Christine was free. Trying to hold on for the barest chance they might get away.</p><p>There’s some murmuring she can’t make out, and Christine sits on the edge of the bed, taking Raoul’s hand.</p><p>“Mademoiselle Daae has also been through a terrible ordeal,” Philippe continues, his volume still raised. “Neither of them know where the damned opera ghost got to. I will send a note when they’re able to discuss the events of last night with you.”</p><p>If the police are asking, it means <em>they</em> don’t know where the opera ghost got to.</p><p>He let them go, and Raoul doesn’t know what to make of it. She can’t even think about it, really. She remembers the ghost and Christine picking her up and carrying her to the boat, and then it was just the ghost, laying her down with something like…gentleness? She’s not even sure if she can call it such. Not when he tried to take her life mere moments before.</p><p>There’s more murmuring, and a <em>thank you</em>, <em>Monsieur le Comte</em>, before the door shuts.</p><p>“Well,” Raoul says, her voice cracking as she speaks. “I suppose the police are asking after us.”</p><p>Christine huffs. “Never mind them. They were barely any use to us at all, when we needed it. They wouldn’t listen to you until a man stepped in. I think you are in desperate need of some water. Can you manage?”</p><p>Raoul nods, feeling a little helpless as Christine pours her a glass, though she smiles when she recalls what must be a memory of Christine shouting at the police chief that she didn’t have time to talk to him, last night. She was barely conscious, then, but she remembers that. She sips the water, and swallowing is still not pleasant, but she’s able to get it down with less wrenching pain than the night before.</p><p>“Better?” Christine asks, looking a little doe eyed.</p><p>“Yes,” Raoul answers, and though her voice sounds terrible still, it can be heard when her throat isn’t so dry. “Thank you.”</p><p>Raoul tenses when Christine puts a hand on her back.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” Christine whispers. “Does that hurt?”</p><p>“No, I…” Raoul shudders, and she can’t stop thinking about the way the ghost pushed her against the grate, the way he forcefully intertwined their fingers. “I’m sorry I just…”</p><p>“It’s all right,” Christine whispers, and Raoul feels weak, she feels <em>weak</em> because they both went through hell last night and Christine seems so much more together. “Are you in pain?”</p><p>Christine’s question brings the pain forward. Her ankle. The knife wound. Her face. Her back. Her wrists. Her <em>neck</em>.</p><p>“Yes,” Raoul admits, a cough marring the words. “I had…it was Laudanum, last night?”</p><p>Christine nods. “Dr. Aubert stayed over, but he had to go out on call this morning. He taught me how to use this.” She points at the breathing contraption from last evening. “I can help you with it, then maybe a little Laudanum before something to eat? Or some soup at least, no solids, for now.”</p><p>Raoul agrees, and she can breathe a little easier, afterward, the wheeze she heard earlier sounding less like a death rattle. She takes a half dose of Laudanum, hoping she can stay awake for a least a while, hoping she can bear it.</p><p>She’s never been in pain like this. The rest will heal, but her neck…will her voice come back? She should be grateful to be alive, to be here with Christine, and she is, but she’s scared, too. She doesn’t want to be scared.</p><p>She didn’t expect to see today, when that rope went around her neck. She’s not sure she expected to see it when she went down to the lair in the first place. She only hoped. Prayed, even though she doesn’t talk much to God, these days.</p><p>She moves her face closer to Christine’s, desperate for a kiss, desperate to feel <em>real</em> and not like a half-dead young girl unable to leave her bed.</p><p>She thinks of the ghost’s finger running across her lips.</p><p>She thinks of Christine forced to kiss him to save her and she doesn’t…</p><p>She starts breathing harder.</p><p>“Raoul?” Christine questions.</p><p>“I…uh…” Raoul can’t get the words out. “I was going to…to kiss you but then I…I remembered that you had to kiss him and maybe you didn’t want me to because of how he…he touched you…”</p><p>“Oh, sweetheart,” Christine says softly. “I…last night, during Don Juan, I thought of you. I thought of you so I didn’t have to think of him. Is it all right if I kiss you?”</p><p>Raoul nods, and she’s crying already, the tears running down her cheeks as Christine’s lips meet hers gently, carefully, like she might be china. They’re both holding themselves tensely, tightly, and it makes Raoul want to cry more, that even a simple touch from the other makes them both afraid because of what <em>he</em> did. Christine’s chaste, cautious kiss is warm, though, and it makes Raoul feel something other than pain. They’ll get through this. They’ll get through this. He can’t ruin it. He can’t. She won’t let him.</p><p>There’s a knock on the door before they can say more. Before they can discuss last night beyond Raoul’s immediate needs.</p><p>“Raoul,” Philippe says as he comes in with Juliette in tow. Warmly. With relief. Like he might cry. “You’re awake. Apologies for the shouting, those damned fools wanted to come up here and speak with you, or at the least have Christine come downstairs. I told them no.”</p><p>Raoul clears her throat, and even that hurts. “So I heard.”</p><p>“I’m going to go see if Victor can draw up some broth and tea,” Christine says, looking at Juliette and Philippe. “If that’s all right?”</p><p>“This is your home now too,” Philippe replies, and Raoul melts a little, when she sees the affection in her brother’s face. “Of course.”</p><p>Christine puts a kiss on Raoul’s hair, and Raoul almost says <em>don’t go</em>, but she’s fine, in this house. She’s fine. Her siblings are going to ask what happened. She’s going to have to give them <em>some</em> explanation. It’s possible that right now, despite the fact that he let them go, that Raoul hates the ghost more than ever.</p><p>“My sweet girl,” Juliette says as Christine shuts the door, and Raoul has a faint, fleeting memory of her sister climbing into the fiacre last night. “I’m so glad to see you up.”</p><p>
  <em>Oh, my sweet girl. We’re going to get you inside.</em>
</p><p>Something about those words, the endearment, makes Raoul cry.</p><p>A single sob bursts past her lips, and then, they don’t stop. It hurts to cry like this, her whole damn body just <em>hurts</em>, and it makes it harder to breathe when it’s already hard but she can’t stop. She can’t stop. She’s twenty-one years-old, but she just wants someone to hold her, to tell her it’s going to be fine. She wants <em>parents</em>, and Juliette and Philippe are as close as she has, more, really, than the grief-stricken father who was kind but always a little distant with her, his youngest child by a decade.</p><p>Juliette gets to her first. Philippe’s a touch slower, with his arm. They sit down on either side of her and Juliette’s arms go carefully, tenderly around her. She’s whispering something, but all Raoul can hear is the sound of the ghost’s knife flicking open, how he said <em>not my weapon of choice, but useful enough for a harlot. </em></p><p>The ghost’s words come back to her. His words. That voice. It’s all she can hear it’s all she can <em>hear</em>.</p><p>
  <em>Your lover makes quite the passionate plea. If I might deign to call her such.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>It’s your sins we’re here to discuss, Mademoiselle de Chagny.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I do hope that doesn’t scar your pretty face.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Don’t worry, mademoiselle, you aren’t my sort.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I may have this face, but at least she can marry me.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Is this what you did? To seduce her? To trap her under your spell? </em>
</p><p>
  <em>You’ve never had a man, have you?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I’ll tell you a secret. This is the real end of Don Juan Triumphant. </em>
</p><p>The ghost’s voice rings over and over and<em> over</em> again in her memory, and how did Christine live with this for months, years, how did she live with him in her <em>ear</em>?</p><p>He sounded so like the men who attacked her in the street, that night. More hateful, granted, more personal, but still the same dark fascination, the desire to <em>show</em> her. To damn her, for being who she is. She thinks of the young men who move in the same social circles, the men at salons and dinners who look at her too long, who whisper to each other as much—more—than they accuse women of doing.</p><p><em>If she were ugly it would make sense</em>, she remembers one of them saying to another one night at a gathering for Philippe’s birthday last year, thinking she couldn’t hear. Women know how to keep their voices down, how to speak in public without being heard. In her experience, men don’t and why would they? Everyone listens to them. <em>But she isn’t. I don’t know what Philippe’s thinking, putting up with it. Rumor has it she’s dallying with Celine de Chenot. You’d best make sure she stays away from your sister. </em></p><p>She thinks of what Madame Giry told her after the Masquerade.</p><p>
  <em>He’s a genius. </em>
</p><p>Does that <em>genius </em>give him freedom to claim the bodies of women, either as his own, or to turn them into corpses? <em>Does it</em>?</p><p>“Raoul,” Philippe whispers, his good hand on her back, and she remembers again that her brother is hurt because of Erik. “Raoul,<em> ma petite</em>, you’re safe. You’re home.”</p><p>Raoul shakes her head because she doesn’t feel safe, she doesn’t know how to feel safe. She spent all this time trying to make Christine feel safe, and now she doesn’t know how to keep going when all she can think about is the man who tried to crush them both.</p><p>“I failed her.” The words come out in a choked, quiet squeak. “I <em>failed</em> her.”</p><p>She starts crying again, and she coughs, and Juliette holds her a little closer.</p><p>“Raoul, darling,” Juliette murmurs. “You did no such thing. I promise you. Christine told us how hard you fought.”</p><p>Raoul sniffs, trying to control herself, trying to breathe.</p><p>“I…I caught the rope, the first time he tried it but then…we fought and he struck me in the face and he had that knife and he used to be an assassin, he said, and…” she coughs again and Philippe rubs circles into her back. “And he dragged me across the floor and tied me up.” She breathes in deep, except it’s not very deep, still. “And he…he…he told Christine that…that she had to choose—stay with him forever, or he would kill me.”</p><p>“Oh, my dear god,” Philippe says, the words punctuated by Juliette’s gasp. “Raoul.”</p><p>Raoul stares ahead of her, because she’s not sure if she can look her siblings in the eye, for this part. “I told her to let him kill me. I begged her to.”</p><p>Juliette starts crying. Openly crying. Her famous composure gives way like the sound of breaking glass in the quiet, and Raoul’s heart clenches.</p><p>“Juliette I’m sorry,” she says, and she’s quickly losing her voice. “But I was was afraid he would…that he would assault her, after the way he touched her on that stage and I couldn’t bear to leave her there with him, not when she could finally be free. I didn’t….it didn’t seem at all that he would release us.”</p><p>“No, I know, sweetheart.” Juliette runs a finger down the little cut on Raoul’s face, cradling her cheek like she might be the most precious thing in the world. “I just….I’m so sorry that happened to you both.”</p><p>“I’ll kill the bastard myself,” Philippe growls. He looks at Raoul, his face going a little red. “He didn’t…do…that…to you? Did…”</p><p>“No.” Raoul shakes her head, gently cutting off her brother’s words. She’s not sure how to talk about the way he was too<em> close</em>, the way he touched her, the way he put his knee between her legs and pressed against her with the threat of it even as he said he would never. She can perhaps speak to Juliette about it later, but she thinks Philippe might well combust at even the idea of it. “I…Christine was so brave. She was going to stay there. She convinced him that she would. She begged for my life, she kissed him and swore she would be his wife like he wanted—that’s why she was in the wedding dress.” Raoul shudders and Philippe mutters something like <em>dear God</em>. “And then he…something about that made him let us go. I can only remember pieces of it. I was nearly passed out.”</p><p>Juliette brushes a strand of Raoul’s loose hair behind her ear, and Philippe, sounding like he might cry again, takes Raoul’s hand. “You found an exceptional person to love. And I’m sorry I doubted her, at first. And please remember, my dear sweet girl, that you were brave too. I’m terrible at commitment…” Juliette snorts, and it almost, <em>almost</em>, makes Raoul laugh. “But you aren’t. And you know that committing to someone means letting them help you, too. That you help each other. You’re both free today because each of you was willing to sacrifice for the other.”</p><p>Raoul presses Philippe’s hand tight, loving her brother more than she can express, at the moment.</p><p>“I took care of Christine last night as best I could, once you were asleep,” Juliette adds. “Got her out of that dress, which quite honestly, I had Madeline get rid of this morning, as I didn’t think either of you would want to see it again. I got some food in her. She didn’t even need me to stand up to Eloise. She did it herself.”</p><p>Raoul’s about to respond, but she coughs again instead. Juliette gets up without prompting, pouring the other half-dose of Laudanum, much to Raoul’s chagrin.</p><p>“You are very ill,” she says, not leaving room for argument. “You need to eat if you can, then sleep a little more. Dr. Aubert will be back in a while, and he’ll need to look you over.”</p><p>She craves sleep and doesn’t, all at once. With sleep comes nightmares. Coughing. Waking up gasping for air and not knowing how much is in her head and how much has to do with her very real injuries. She did it twice last night, those moments coming back to her in incoherent spatters of liquid memory. The effect of the Laudanum, no doubt. She remembers the sweaty sheets and Christine’s whisper in her ear. She remembers falling asleep hard and sinking deep into the mattress, worried she wouldn’t wake up but unable to keep her eyes open.</p><p>“Juliette…” Raoul tries, feeling as if her sister is keeping something from her. “What did Dr. Aubert say?”</p><p>Juliette turns from where she’s pouring the Laudanum, biting her lip, but she’s never been one to hide the truth. “If you worsen, he’ll need to do surgery to help you breathe. We need to talk about what happened, but you need to<em> rest</em>, <em>ma petite</em>. So you don’t have to go through anything else. Do you feel as if you can breathe better than last evening?”</p><p>“A bit,” Raoul replies, taking the Laudanum from Juliette without further complaint. “I’ll rest. I promise.”</p><p>Christine comes back with a tray in hand, her dark blue dressing gown making her blue eyes stand out. Her long chestnut curls are loose, too, and it does give Raoul a little comfort that she doesn’t seem bothered to be so casual in front of Juliette and Philippe.</p><p>That maybe she feels like this could be home.</p><p>“We’ll let you two talk,” Juliette says. “Later, Raoul, if you’re feeling up to it, the children would like to come see you for just a few minutes. They’re a bit frightened.”</p><p>Raoul presses Juliette’s hand, putting a kiss on her sister’s knuckles. “Of course.”</p><p>Juliette and Philippe go, though both look back like they can’t bear to have her out of their sight.</p><p>Christine puts the tray down on Raoul’s bedside table. “There’s…some kind of tea here, I admit I don’t know much about tea. I only ever drink coffee. But Dr. Aubert said tea, specifically.”</p><p>“Neither do we,” Raoul admits, giving a little smile. “We got that tea as a gift from…someone. Very English of them.”</p><p>Christine laughs, pouring some of the hot tea into a cup and handing it over. Raoul takes a sip, and it still hurts, god it <em>hurts</em>, but the tea feels soothing too, somehow, and there’s a touch of honey in there, somewhere. Warmth flood into her fingers from the cup, a little curl of steam swirling into the air. Christine pours another liquid that looks like some kind of chicken broth, and Raoul drinks that too, she drinks it even if her throat aches because she <em>is </em>hungry, and Christine is looking at her, worried, and she wants that look to go away.</p><p>“I think that’s all I can do,” Raoul says when she’s gotten down about half of both. “Thank you, darling.”</p><p>Christine sucks in a breath.</p><p>Raoul tilts her head. “Christine, are you all right?”</p><p>“I…” Christine turns toward her, leaving the tray. “I just…I was so afraid, last night, that I would never hear you call me that again. It’s so small a thing, I know. But I thought about it.”</p><p>“Darling.” Raoul emphasizes the word, reaching out for Christine’s hand even though her own aches. “I’m here. I’m still here. Because of you. You’re the bravest person I’ve ever met. You…” her voice breaks from the effort of talking, and Christine puts a hand on her face. Gently. Sweetly. Raoul feels the ghost’s cold hand on her face, too, she tenses, but she doesn’t jolt. She doesn’t jump. This is Christine. Christine and not him.</p><p>“You need to rest, my love,” Christine whispers. “I’ll lay down with you. I’m still tired, to be quite honest.”</p><p>Of course she is. How could she not be? Don Juan felt like a decade. The events of the lair like a century. But it was all less than twenty-four hours ago.</p><p>Raoul’s frustrated, she’s furious she can’t stay awake for more than three-quarters of an hour, but she does as Christine asks. She lays down on her side—not a deeply easy feat, while trying to keep her ankle propped up, somewhat. Christine lays down behind her, putting an arm loosely around Raoul’s waist, careful of the knife wound. She holds Raoul as close as she may. They’re both shaking. Raoul thinks of the night of the masquerade, when they returned home at dawn and lay down just like this, just in opposite places. They usually naturally fell that way, given Raoul is so much taller. Raoul takes Christine’s hand. Christine puts a soft, tiny kiss on Raoul’s shoulder.</p><p>And it makes Raoul cry again.</p><p>If that demon comes back, she can’t protect Christine. Not like this. She’ll have to depend on her siblings. She just wants to do her best to keep Christine safe and she…and she….</p><p>“We’re safe,” Christine murmurs, like she might be reading Raoul’s mind. “I’m safe. Let me take care of you, a while, all right? Like you’ve been taking care of me all this time.”</p><p>Raoul squeezes her eyes shut, more tears spilling down her cheeks.</p><p>She hears Erik’s voice in her head again, each word tracing across her soul like the tip of a knife.</p><p>
  <em>Where’s your fine carriage now, mademoiselle? Where’s your precious older brother to protect you?</em>
</p><p>That’s when Christine starts to sing. Softly. Quietly.</p><p>And only for Raoul.</p><p>
  <em>Little Lotte thought of everything and nothing</em>
  <br/>
  <em>Like a butterfly she flew about in the gold of the sun.</em>
</p><p>It’s the old poem Gustave Daae used to read to them. The poem they made their own, expanding upon Little Lotte’s world.</p><p>Even here in the smallness of Raoul’s bedroom when the song is not much more than a whisper, Christine’s voice is beautiful. It’s <em>beautiful</em>, and it drowns out the ghost in Raoul’s head.</p><p>And it’s hers. Not the ghost’s. Just Christine’s. It trembles a little, and she sounds a touch unsure, but there’s magic in it, just like there was the night of Hannibal. Better, because her life is finally her own.</p><p>
  <em>In her golden curls she wore the crown of spring</em>
</p><p>
  <em>And her gaze was like the heavens, so bright blue and clear</em>
</p><p>The joy of those shared childhood summers swirls like a symphony between them, and Raoul feels some of the tension finally,<em> finally</em> leave her. She listens to the sound of Christine’s voice instead of the screeching of her own mind.</p><p>And she falls asleep.                                                                                 </p><hr/><p>Raoul wishes it didn’t tire her to walk to her own bathroom.</p><p>But it does. Her lead legs weight her down and tremble at the same time, and she has to hold onto things to even make it on her own. Christine had to come with her every time up until this morning.</p><p>She longs for a bath, <em>longs</em> for one, but Dr. Aubert said no. The fact remained that she was still dirty from swimming in the lake, from bleeding, from all of it, so she had to strip and let Christine wipe her down. It’s not being vulnerable in front of Christine that scares her, but she’s never been this physically helpless. She’s been ill, but not like this. She’s been in love with Christine forever, but they’ve not even been together a year, and Christine has to be her nurse. She never expected this, at twenty-one.</p><p>Sometimes it scares her, how much her relationship with Christine has been defined by the ghost. Even in those six months where he disappeared, they waited. Watched. And he wasn’t even gone, was he? No. He must have been watching them through the window of the little flat. The time they realized it couldn’t have been the first. He’s consumed Christine’s thoughts for years, and her own for months. She didn’t understand how much until now.  </p><p>And yet he remains. In her head. In her dreams. She hears him in her ear.</p><p>
  <em>I want you to give up this play fantasy with Christine.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Bravo, mademoiselle, such spirited words!</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Insolent girl. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Uh-uh, no interrupting the opera. It’s about to start.</em>
</p><p>She gazes in the mirror at her limp, oily hair. She’s not allowed to wash that yet, first because it would tire her too easily, but also because Dr. Aubert worries for any small thing sending her toward a fever. Her skin is waxy, pale, and without color, a purple bruise spreading across her right cheek where the ghost struck her.</p><p>She looks a little bit like a ghost, herself.</p><p>There’s a knock on the edge of the half-open door.</p><p>“Raoul?” Christine says. “I…Eloise is here to see you.”</p><p>Three days. Eloise waited three days, which is both frustrating and surprising, all at once.</p><p>Meg Giry is here to see them—back for the second time—and Raoul would much, much rather spend her limited amount of time awake talking to her. Dr. Aubert has asked her to only speak so much a day, concerned about the inflammation in her throat. It’s going down, but it’s not gone, her voice left raspy and her coughs still producing bits of blood, here and there. Fluid too, coming up from her angry lungs.</p><p>Raoul’s not sure she wants to speak to Eloise. But Juliette and Philippe are losing sleep over worrying, Raoul can tell by the purple streaked beneath their eyes, by their wan faces, and Philippe especially needs the rest, with his arm still needing several weeks to heal.</p><p>So she’s going to try. For them. She slides back into bed, propping her foot up on the pillow that’s now being used for that purpose. Half her things—and Christine’s—have been moved to the larger suite of rooms that used to belong to her parents, and then just to her father, though they won’t be moving into them just yet, as Philippe is insisting on fresh coats of paint and new bedding.</p><p>“Christine,” Eloise says upon entering Raoul’s bedroom, tucking a stray hair behind her ear. Odd, given Eloise never lets anything look out of place. “I hope you’re doing all right.”</p><p>“As well as I can,” Christine says, kind but still suspicious. “This is my friend Meg Giry. Meg, this is Raoul’s sister, Eloise.”</p><p>Meg gives her greetings, and Christine puts a kiss on Raoul’s cheek, telling her they’ll be just downstairs, if needed.</p><p>Silence falls, when the door shuts. Awkwardness. Eloise hovers at the foot of Raoul’s bed, and Raoul isn’t sure she’s ever seen her sister hover before. Eloise says what she means, usually, whatever the consequence. At least to her siblings, if not at parties.</p><p>“You can sit down, Eloise,” Raoul says, and her sister jumps at the rasp in her voice. “Just pull over one of the armchairs. They’re not heavy.”</p><p>She doesn’t really want Eloise sitting on the bed with her.</p><p>Eloise does as asked without complaint, without asking one of the servants to do it, without making a face. She nestles the chair close, sitting on the edge and folding her hands in her lap.</p><p>She glances at Raoul, and she looks penitent. “How are you feeling?”</p><p>“Dr. Aubert seems to believe I am out of immediate danger of needing surgery to survive.” Raoul folds her hands in her lap, keeping her eyes focused on them instead of her sister. “If I follow his strict instructions. But I do not feel well. I sleep, most of the time. I wake up coughing. I am not sure how long all of this will last.”</p><p>“Raoul…” Eloise puts her hand on the bed like maybe she wants Raoul to take it, but Raoul can’t make herself, not when she knows that maybe, just maybe, that letter Eloise tore up could have prevented all of this. Maybe if Christine had her to reach out to, someone who knew her father, someone outside the opera house, Erik couldn’t have gotten his claws in so deep. “When I heard what happened, when I came here and saw the state you were in I…I was horrified that you might die and our last conversation was that fight. I’m sorry I was rude to Christine. To you. I’m…I’m sorry I tore up that letter.”</p><p>Raoul pauses, finally meeting her sister’s eyes, which look a murkier green than usual. “Thank you. I appreciate that.”</p><p>Eloise pulls her hand back when it’s clear Raoul isn’t interested in taking it. “I always wanted what was best for you. You’re so full of life. So warm. So unafraid. You’ve always reminded me of Maman. And I was afraid that if you pursued what you’re pursuing, that the world, the people we know, would be cruel to you over it. That it would ruin you. That perhaps I could convince you into wanting something else.”</p><p>“I know what I want, Eloise.”</p><p>“I know,” Eloise whispers. “You always have. And Juliette and Philippe, they would give you the world, if they could. And I suppose…I suppose I saw myself as the one who needed to remind you of reality, but then I realized…”</p><p>Raoul softens, just a little, because she never wanted to fight with her sister, not really, but now the path to reconciliation is harder. It’s harder because Eloise can’t take that letter back. She can’t take back how she was cruel a few days ago when Raoul needed kindness.</p><p>“That I knew the reality?” Raoul asks.</p><p>Eloise nods. “When I saw you laying here, covered in blood. In such pain. When I saw Christine willing to stand up to me. When I realized you were willing to die for her I…I knew that whatever cruelties the world might show, if you were both willing to face that terrible man for each other, that you could handle the world.” She glances at the newspaper resting atop the bedside table next to the bottle of Laudanum and handkerchiefs dotted with spots of blood.</p><p>
  <em>A Second Disaster Strikes the Opera!</em>
</p><p>Raoul’s name is there. Christine’s. Speculation galore, given they certainly weren’t interviewed for the piece and haven’t even spoken to the police about the details of that evening, so most of the article is dedicated to retelling the story of the crashing chandelier, before reiterating the end of Don Juan. Everything they went through is up for public consumption. The paper doesn’t discuss the nature of her relationship with Christine, but there’s gossip enough already to fill in the blanks.</p><p>Everyone loves a scandal. Everyone loves a ghost story, even if the ghost in question is a man, and not a specter.</p><p>She hasn’t even been able to talk to Christine about what happened, not really, because she can’t stay awake long enough.</p><p>Or perhaps she’s just avoiding it.</p><p>A dark, angry smile slips across Raoul’s lips. “Everyone is always watching us. I’m sure they’ll be banging down the door soon, to write more about the scandal of it all.”</p><p>“I’m sorry I was one of them,” Eloise whispers, putting a light hand on Raoul’s knee that Raoul doesn’t push away. “One of the people watching both of you and acting on it without really seeing. But I…I’m so relieved both of you made it out. And I…I am proud of you. For being as brave as you were. Juliette told me a little of what happened. The children have been asking after you. I’ll bring them by, when you’re better.”</p><p>Raoul presses her sister’s hand lightly for a brief, fleeting moment. “I’d like that. Thank you.”</p><p>She doesn’t say <em>I forgive you</em>, because she’s not ready. She can’t forget about the letter, yet. She can’t stop thinking about what might have happened if she’d gotten it.</p><p>But this is a start.</p><p>Eloise goes, then, and Raoul’s barely alone a moment before the door comes open again, Juliette’s children spilling in with Christine and Meg behind them.</p><p>Estelle rushes up to the bed, looking at Raoul for permission before putting a kiss on her cheek. “I know Maman told me not to bother you, but I wanted to see you. I can read to you later, if you’re feeling better? You can pick what it is.”</p><p>Raoul agrees, though when she is awake, it’s largely to eat and take more medication, but she doesn’t want to tell her niece that. Not when she has that hopeful smile on her face.</p><p>Estelle glances at the paper like Eloise did, folding her hands behind her back. “I’m sorry that terrible man hurt you.” Tears brim in her eyes, and she so often reminds Raoul of herself at thirteen, sure and unsure all at once. Full of life, but more mature perhaps, than other girls her age. “But Christine, she said how brave you were.” She smiles back at Christine, who looks pleased. “And she said she’s going to give me singing lessons, soon, since we’re staying in Paris a while.”</p><p>Raoul marvels at the idea that Christine wants to teach at all, but perhaps she thinks she can make something good out of it, instead of what happened with her own mentor.</p><p>“Excellent,” Raoul says, giving her niece a smile. “Perhaps your little brother will finally submit to my violin lessons, too.”</p><p>Henri giggles when Raoul looks at him, and then Juliette’s there, sweeping her children out and leaving Raoul alone with Christine and Meg.</p><p>Christine looks apologetic. “They were bursting to see you again. I’m afraid I couldn’t bear to stop them.”</p><p>“No, that’s all right,” Raoul says. “It’s good to see them. I’m only sorry I can’t be more there for them, right now.”</p><p>“Raoul,” Meg replies, tossing herself with elegance into one of the armchairs as Christine sits on the bed. “You’ve been through something terrible. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”</p><p>“What news of the opera?” Raoul asks, hearing the concern but unable to respond to it, though she doesn’t miss the look that passes between Christine and Meg. “We’ve not had word, really, only a note from Andre and Firmin asking after us.”</p><p>Meg pulls her legs up in the chair and wraps her arms around them, a position that could only be held comfortably by a ballerina. “Hmm. Andre and Firmin are keeping it shut, for now. There’s some rumors that they might sell, though I don’t know if that’s true or just nonsense. I suppose they’d need to talk with you and Philippe first, before even really thinking of that. If you’re wanting to remain as patron, that is. If there were new managers.”</p><p>Raoul grasps her sheets in her right fist, and she can’t even think of opera house logistics, at the moment. “Any word about him?”</p><p>Christine and Meg share a look again.</p><p>Meg shakes her head. “No. Just what I told you before, that he was gone when the mob came down. There was no trace at all. Maman’s been wondering over it. She’s been a bit strange, actually.”</p><p>The <em>strange</em> Madame Giry has not been to see them. Raoul thinks of the apology the ballet mistress gave, lost in all that happened after. She’s not sure if it was genuine, or given in a moment of regret, or…what exactly it was. She felt the same after the masquerade, when she learned about the ghost’s background.</p><p>
  <em>They say he built for the Shah of Persia. </em>
</p><p>Who is they? And how did Madame Giry have answers when no one else seemed to? Raoul still doesn’t know.</p><p>It’s not a simple situation, but Raoul doesn’t think she can trust the older woman. Not when she helped Erik take advantage of Christine, however sorry she might be. The root of all of this is the ghost himself, his manipulations and his abuse, but just like the letter Eloise tore up, Madame Giry played a part, too.</p><p>Raoul goes quiet after that, falling asleep to the sounds of Christine and Meg’s chatter.                                                                    </p><hr/><p>Raoul wakes up screaming.</p><p>At first, she can’t sort out reality from her nightmare.</p><p>It’s dark, still. There’s no light coming in through the window. No light. Not even starlight or moonlight just dark dark dark. She wishes for sunlight, but that’s hours away. An eternity.</p><p>She hates the night, now, dread creeping over her as twilight falls and darkness descends, ripping away any sense of safety she can grasp onto.</p><p>The lair was so <em>dark</em>.</p><p>Her dream was dark too. Dark, and dripping with blood.</p><p>A rope tight around her neck, scraping her skin and making it burn.</p><p>Soft, malicious laughter in her ear. Amused at her pain.</p><p>That voice. The silky-smooth voice of her would-be-murderer.</p><p>A hand, grasping her face. That cold, merciless hand.</p><p><em>There was never a choice,</em> the ghost said in the dream, thought it was barely different from the reality Raoul faced days ago. <em>You were always going to die, mademoiselle. From the moment I saw you kiss Christine on the rooftop. And I don’t suppose heaven will be pleased to see you, lothario that you are.</em></p><p>There was the feeling of choking, of getting no air, the vision of scrabbling at the rope with blood crusted under her fingernails and no way out no way <em>out </em>and Christine crying and…</p><p>She can’t open her eyes. She can’t open her eyes or might be real.</p><p>Another scream rips through her throat and tears through her chest and it <em>hurts</em>.</p><p>“Raoul?”</p><p>Christine’s voice. Not the ghost’s. Christine. <em>Christine</em>. Sweet and full of love.</p><p>“Raoul, my love it’s all right, you’re all right,” Christine murmurs, and Raoul hears the sharp sound of her striking a match. “You were dreaming.”</p><p>Raoul finally opens her eyes, a faint yellow-orange light illuminating the dark of the room.</p><p>She starts coughing.</p><p>“Shhh.” Christine helps her sit up, running a hand up and down her back. “We’re not there. We’re not there, sweetheart. We’re home. We’re home.”</p><p>Raoul slowly eases out of the nightmare, but it keeps its claws in her still, and she reaches for a handkerchief on the table, coughing up a little blood into it, though a less alarming amount than the past few days.</p><p>The door comes open, light from the gas lamp in the hallway flooding into the bedroom. Philippe’s there, his dressing gown tossed on.</p><p>“I heard screaming,” he explains, stepping inside with a befuddled look. “Raoul, are you well?”</p><p>“Bad dream,” Raoul croaks, and Christine busies herself pouring a glass of water. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.”</p><p>Philippe swipes his hand through the air, shaking his head. “No no, don’t apologize.” He sits down on the edge of the bed, wincing as he shifts his arm. Raoul doesn’t know how he sleeps in that sling. He smooths Raoul’s sweaty hair out of her face, making a little grimace when he touches her forehead. “You’re a touch warm, <em>ma petite</em>.”</p><p>Christine helps Raoul sip some water, gasping a little when she looks down. “Raoul, you’re bleeding, a bit.”</p><p>Raoul looks down, too, and there is indeed a streak of blood on her white nightdress. She must have aggravated the knife wound in her sleep.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” Raoul says, though she’s not sure, exactly, who she’s apologizing to. “I’m sorry.”</p><p>Philippe presses a kiss to the side of her head, taking yet another handkerchief from the table and wiping the beads of sweat from Raoul’s face. “Sweet girl…” he murmurs, speaking to her like he did when she was small. Philippe treats her so much like a brother now that it’s odd to go back to that, but part of her craves it, part of her craves comfort from him, comfort from a man who has never betrayed her. Who never would. “Do you want me to hire men to watch the door, at night? Would that help?”</p><p>“No,” Raoul answers. “Don’t. Not just for my sake.”</p><p><em>He would just kill them</em>, she wants to say, but she keeps those thoughts to herself.</p><p>“I would do anything for your sake,” Philippe says softly. “Anything to have you well again and drinking your coffee before it’s had a chance to cool in the mornings because you just<em> have</em> to rush out the door.”</p><p>The light teasing is meant to cheer her, but it just makes her miss….herself.</p><p>“I know.” Raoul’s voice breaks, and she feels tears threatening her again, and why can’t she stop <em>crying</em>, lately? How long has it even been, since the events of the lair? Four days? Five? Everything is blurred by the sleep and the drugs, her entire life one melted mess of time. “You’ve done so much already.” She gestures at his arm. “I just…I want to go back to sleep, I think. You should sleep, too.”</p><p>Philippe kisses her hair. “I’ll let Christine patch you up.” He reaches across the bed for Christine’s hand, pressing it tight. “Let us know if you need anything, my dear.”</p><p>“I will, Philippe.” Christine gives a little smile. “Thank you.”</p><p>Christine doesn’t say anything at first, when Philippe leaves, searching through the supplies Dr. Aubert left and finding the camphor and a bandage—a normal one, as opposed to the strange wet one he used at first.</p><p>“Lay back for me?” Christine asks, sitting down on the bed again.</p><p>Raoul complies, letting Christine pull her nightdress up to get a look at the wound. The bandage is ripped, a little residual blood seeping out.</p><p>“Hmm.” Christine picks off the remaining bandage. “It looks a little angry. I suppose that’s the root of the fever.” She feels Raoul’s forehead. “You’re just a bit warm though, nothing too bad, I think.”</p><p>Raoul nods, though she doesn’t answer. There’s a strangeness, between them. A distance, and she knows she’s causing it.</p><p>She doesn’t know how to talk to Christine about what happened in the ghost’s lair. Not in a meaningful way. It hangs between them like a shroud. It haunts their dreams. But she doesn’t know how to talk about it, she doesn’t know how to talk about the way she begged Christine to let her die. How she <em>expected </em>to die. After all her dreams of their future, when she set foot in that lair, she felt them all vanish.</p><p>All of them, except her dream of Christine’s freedom. Freedom that didn’t include her by warrant of the ghost’s demands.</p><p>She wants to take all those dreams back, she’s just not sure how to grasp them, golden as they were, when all she feels is the dark. She was the one who told Christine they would make it through, who swore it for months, who believed it with every fiber of her being. It wasn’t the chandelier crash that made her doubt it. Or the masquerade. Or even the graveyard. No, it was that day when she watched Philippe fall to the ground, the snap of his arm echoing through the theater. That was when the murderous intent became clear to her. The fact that she might not survive. That she was caught up in a game she didn’t know how to play. That she might have to trade her life for Christine’s freedom. Christine, meanwhile, had certainly been planning to trade her freedom for Raoul’s life. Christine feared he would kidnap her, and she was right.</p><p>Raoul feels like she walked right into his trap. Into the end of his opera.</p><p>Christine cleans the wound a touch before spreading some camphor on it and rewrapping the bandage.</p><p>“I’m going to put some on your neck, too,” Christine says, her hand hovering over the angry red marks, which are mixing with purple bruising. “I think it needs it.”</p><p>Raoul tenses as soon as Christine’s gentle fingers touch her neck. It’s the first time she’s touched it, most of that done by Dr. Aubert.</p><p>Christine draws back. “Do you want me to stop?”</p><p>“No. I’m sorry.”</p><p>Christine continues with even more gentleness than before, somehow, pausing when she’s halfway across. “Do you want to tell me about your dream?”</p><p>“It’s nothing that would surprise you,” Raoul evades. Christine woke up last night with a nightmare of her own, and Raoul doesn’t want to trouble her further, not when Christine is spending her days nursing her. When Christine has been through hell, too.</p><p>Christine doesn’t respond immediately, finishing up and then helping Raoul use the breathing machine before blowing out the candle again.</p><p>A visible chill wracks Raoul’s body, and Christine pulls the covers up over both their shoulders, reaching down for Raoul’s hand beneath the sheets. Something about the intertwining of their fingers eases Raoul’s heart.</p><p>“Please tell me about your dream.”</p><p>The plea rings in the quiet, and Raoul finds she can’t say no. Talking about the dream isn’t talking about that night, after all. That thing the two of them went through that’s been hard to translate to anyone else.</p><p>“I…I dreamt about…about him.” Raoul can barely get the words out. She thinks of who she was the night of the masquerade, barreling after the ghost without a second thought. Who she was in the graveyard, crossing blades in the snow. Who she was when she descended down into the lair. Who she was before she the ghost dragged her across the floor toward her death, making her <em>wait</em> before he murdered her.</p><p>She wants that girl back.</p><p>“I dreamt…” Raoul tries again. “That he killed me. Even after you said you would stay.”</p><p>Something wells up in her chest, something like grief. Grief for who she was before that night.</p><p>“I dreamt that too,” Christine whispers, tucking back a strand of Raoul’s hair. “Last night.”</p><p>“Do you hear him?” Raoul asks before she can stop herself. “His voice?”</p><p>“Sometimes,” Christine admits, her own trembling. “When it’s quiet and dark and I wake up in the middle of the might. But it’s not as loud as before and it’s….I don’t hear it as often. There’s so many other things in my head, now. My world is wider. I…do you hear him?”</p><p>“Yes.” Raoul hears the anguish in her own voice and she swore she wouldn’t say this, she swore she wouldn’t put more on Christine, but it comes spilling out, anyway. “I hear him. All the time.”</p><p>“Raoul…” Christine runs a finger down Raoul’s cheek. “We should talk about what happened that night. Really talk about it.”</p><p>“Not right now.” Pain pulses behind Raoul’s eyes, but it’s not time for another dose of Laudanum, yet. “Please. I’m not ready.”</p><p>She wishes she was. She wishes she wishes she <em>wishes</em>.</p><p>“I…” Christine squeezes Raoul’s hand. “I know you thought you were going to die down there. But you didn’t. You didn’t, Raoul. I thought I was going to be trapped. But I’m free. I’m here.”</p><p>Raoul wants to answer her. She wants to talk, and she knows Christine <em>needs </em>to talk, too, but she can’t quite manage it. So instead she curls in closer to the person she loves more than anyone or anything in the world, and hopes Christine can give her a few more days.</p><p>Sheer exhaustion and the remaining Laudanum pull at her, and she falls into a tortured, fitful sleep.                                                                                </p><hr/><p>Even Philippe can’t hold the police off longer than a week.</p><p>Raoul is not terribly presentable when they arrive. She finally convinced Dr. Aubert to let her wash her hair because she’s been able to smell the lake in it for days and she couldn’t bear it anymore, so it’s still quite damp when she gets downstairs. She doesn’t like speaking to these men in nothing more than her shift and dressing gown, but she isn’t well enough to do otherwise, improper as it may be. The officers are staring as Juliette helps her down the stairs, one arm snugly around her waist, and she isn’t sure if it’s because of her clothing or because of the bruise on her face and the ring around her neck. Perhaps both. Christine’s wearing a deep blue dress embroidered with silver flowers, her hair put up entirely, for once, like she thinks it might make the officers take her more seriously. <em>Those loose opera girls</em>, Raoul’s heard the same people in her circles who <em>attend </em>the opera say. <em>Always keeping their hair down.</em> Raoul thinks wryly that at least now Madeline has someone who is eager for help with their hair.</p><p>Her sister places her on the sofa between Christine and Philippe, her sprained ankle propped up on the ottoman. She wants to take Christine’s hand. She almost does.</p><p>But she can’t. She remembers at the last second that she can’t.</p><p>How do they tell this story, and leave out the fact they they’re in love?</p><p>Perhaps the police know. There have certainly been rumors flying around since the masquerade—another thing the ghost can’t take back, even if he is experiencing some kind of regret, now—but she’s not willing to confirm the gossip to men like this. Men who didn’t listen to her. Men who have all but forced their way here despite her brother’s protests.</p><p>“You have a half hour, gentleman,” Philippe says, his tone clipped. “At maximum.”</p><p>So, they tell the story. As best they can. Christine does more of the talking to save Raoul’s voice, and she outlines the facts without giving away too many of their vulnerabilities.</p><p>“And you say he released you?” the chief asks, the chief who Christine told <em>no</em> the night of the disaster, and it’s clear he remembers it, even if he was the one most willing to listen to Raoul before Don Juan. He largely listened to Raoul because of Philippe, and he was more likely to listen to her in the first place because of her money and her name—<em>de Chagny</em> carries weight. But to him Christine is just an opera singer, and opera singers don’t get to defy men of the law and get away with it. Especially not ones caught up in a scandal.</p><p>“Yes.” Christine sounds unsure, like she hears the same implication Raoul does.</p><p>That they’re lying about something.</p><p>“I rowed back across the lake that you saw if you went down with the others,” Christine continues, and all Raoul really remembers about that journey was the unending pain, the fear she might die right there, the way she clung to Christine’s voice. “There was a little boat he took me down in.”</p><p>The chief leans forward, and Philippe takes Raoul’s hand, shooting a look of concern at Christine.</p><p>“Why do you suppose he would let you go, Mademoiselle Daae? After all his efforts?”</p><p>Christine tenses in her seat, folding her hands tight in her lap. “I suppose he changed his mind, monsieur. I had told him I would stay as he wished.”</p><p>The chief writes something down, but it seems more like he’s buying time.</p><p>“Mademoiselle Daae,” he says, slow with his words. “I must ask—did you do something to encourage this man? Not to blame you, but we were all…<em>confused</em> at the goings on during the opera.”</p><p>Something volcanic erupts in Raoul’s chest. Hot. Melting. Burning. These men saw something barreling toward being a sexual crime, and failed to recognize it. Any person with half a sensible mind could tell Christine wasn’t interested in the way that man touched her. That when she touched him, she was acting. The ghost might have been able to temporarily delude himself, but not someone on the outside. Women are so often disbelieved, when it comes to these things. Raoul’s known that since she had the awareness to think upon it.</p><p>“You <em>are</em> blaming her by asking that question.” Her voice is a touch better, but only a touch, and it comes out with the now familiar hoarseness, a croak, almost. “This man kidnapped Mademoiselle Daae and attempted to murder me.” She points at the red ring around her neck. “Or do you suppose I did this to myself?”</p><p>“I’m only asking…” the chief tries.</p><p>“You’re only blaming two young women for the actions of a madman,” Philippe growls. “You took my broken arm more seriously than you are kidnapping and attempted murder. “Jules Cazot is a personal friend of mine, and I will report this to him if you are rude to my sister or Mademoiselle Daae again.”</p><p>The chief swallows. “Of course, Monsieur le Comte. My apologies. To all of you. I do, however, think you ought to be aware of the rumors going around. The talk of both or one of you being in league with the opera ghost.”</p><p>“We’re all aware of that,” Juliette adds, narrowing her eyes. “And you ought to know just how ridiculous that is.”</p><p>The chief clears his throat, focusing on Christine again. “You have no idea where he could be? Where he might have gone?”</p><p>Christine shakes her head. “None. All I know is that some of my fellow company members went down to the lair, and there was no trace. As far as my friend Meg Giry has told me, he hasn’t been seen.”</p><p>“He was your teacher,” one of the other men pipes up before the chief can stop him. “Surely you must have some idea.”</p><p>Raoul’s hand twitches, and she wants to take Christine’s, she longs for it, but she settles for grasping her shoulder and holding Philippe’s hand yet tighter.</p><p>“Not to speak for Mademoiselle Daae,” Raoul says, her raspy voice going low. “But the opera ghost was a natural born liar. He made it so that no one knew very much about him at all.”</p><p>“Was this the first time the opera ghost attempted to harm you, Mademoiselle de Chagny?” the chief asks, shooting his underling a look.</p><p>“No. He threatened as much the night the chandelier fell. Then again after the masquerade. He tried to make good on it in the incident in the graveyard I spoke to you briefly of before. Then before Don Juan he…” she looks at Christine, realizing she hasn’t actually told her fiancée about this. “…well he made like he might strangle me in the box. Of course, he waited until later for that.”</p><p>Christine takes a deep, shuddering breath. Raoul coughs for the thousandth time that morning, the sound sharp and sickly and echoing through the sitting room.</p><p>The combination of these things, apparently, is enough to send Philippe over the edge. He tells the police to leave, promising to send someone over with any notes of the ghost’s Raoul still has in her possession. Juliette helps Raoul back up the stairs, and after pouring another dose of Laudanum, kisses Raoul’s temple and leaves her alone with Christine.</p><p>Raoul sits on the bed, but Christine hovers near the edge, like she’s too full of…something to sit down.</p><p>“Christine?” Raoul asks.</p><p>Christine rests her hands on the mussed covers—Madeline never has time to make them, when Raoul rarely leaves her bed.</p><p>“Are you scared to talk to me, Raoul?”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>The questions comes out of her mouth, but it’s not the real answer. She <em>is</em> scared.</p><p>“Are you scared to talk to me?” Christine repeats. “About that night? I…I didn’t even know that Erik threatened you before Don Juan. I remember seeing you touching your neck like you do when you’re nervous, but I didn’t even think…” She clasps a hand over her mouth, barely stifling a sob.</p><p>The sob breaks Raoul’s already broken heart. Her heart that’s still beating long after she expected it to stop.</p><p>“Darling.” Raoul reaches across the bed for Christine’s hand. “Please, sit with me.”</p><p>Raoul wants to hold Christine. She wants to hold her and never let go, but she can’t really, not with her injuries.</p><p>Christine pats the bed when she sits down, gesturing at Raoul to come over to her.</p><p>“It’s just me, Raoul,” Christine says. “Sit with me. Please sit with me.”</p><p>Raoul hesitates because she wants to comfort Christine, but she can’t argue with the look on Christine’s face, either. She sits snugly between Christine’s legs, resting her back against Christine’s chest. Christine’s arms go carefully around Raoul’s waist, her chin hooked over Raoul’s shoulder.</p><p>“Talk to me,” she whispers, one rebellious curl falling loose and tickling Raoul’s cheek. “Please talk to me.”</p><p>Raoul sniffs, already feeling like she might cry, every single emotion living on the surface. “I don’t know how.”</p><p>“I didn’t know how at first, either.” Christine puts a kiss on Raoul’s hair. “When you came into my dressing room after I returned from Erik’s lair. But you wouldn’t let me go. You were patient. You were so gentle. And you let me know I wasn’t alone, even if I was too scared to tell you everything, yet.”</p><p>Those words break open the damn in Raoul’s chest. Everything comes forward. Fear. Shame. Grief. <em>Everything</em>. She turns on her side, her ankle giving a little twinge, and curls up against Christine, her head resting against Christine’s shoulder, her face buried in the fabric of her dress. .</p><p>Christine talks when Raoul can’t.</p><p>“I’ll never forget that you were willing to die for me, Raoul,” she begins, her voice shaking. “But I want you here, alive, with me. When I thought I couldn’t have that, I was willing to settle just for you alive, and the promise that maybe, maybe one day, I could find you again. Even if I’d been forced to stay there, I would have worked every day to try and get back to you.”</p><p>“I didn’t want you to have to suffer through another loss,” Raoul says, tears filling her eyes before spilling onto Christine’s dress. “To suffer more more grief. But I…the thought of you trapped there with him, left to god knows what fate I…just when you’d started untangling yourself from his cruelty, I wanted you to be able to live. Even if it meant living without me.”</p><p>“I know.” Christine tucks Raoul’s head under her chin, holding her close. “I know.”</p><p>“I spent days thinking I might die.” Raoul’s voice cracks for the thousandth time in a week. “And then that rope went around my neck and I was sure. I was certain. I thought I would die with him whispering in my ear and never knowing if he truly let you go. Without knowing if you were free. I’m so…” She takes a breath, but she still can’t get a truly deep one, even if it’s better than a week ago. “I’m so <em>sorry</em>. I was trying so hard to be your hero that I couldn’t see how far into the dark we were sliding. I couldn’t see his game like you did.”</p><p>“Raoul,” Christine runs her fingers through Raoul’s hair. “Raoul, you helped me, so much. If not for you, I…I don’t know what would have happened. I would be trapped with him, most likely. Probably long before a week ago. And I think…” she breathes in deep, like she’s afraid of what she’s about to say. Like she’s afraid of Raoul being angry at her because Christine jumps when anyone shouts, even if it’s not at her. And that’s the ghost’s fault. “…I think you have been so focused on freeing me, that you forgot that you mattered, too. But you matter, Raoul.” Christine sniffs. “You matter to me. To your siblings. To everyone who loves you. You brighten up the world just by being alive. You<em> are</em> my hero. Please stop blaming yourself for this. For not being able to stop my father from dying. None of that is your fault.”</p><p>Great, wracking sobs shake Raoul’s broken body. It hurts, but it’s a relief, too. Christine’s smoothing Raoul’s hair from her face, taking her hand in the other. They lay like that for a while, and for once Raoul just lets herself cry. She lets Christine hear it.</p><p>“I keep thinking…” Raoul gulps for air, her neck aching. “I keep thinking about how Eloise tore up that letter, and how if she hadn’t then maybe we would have kept in touch and that horrible man maybe wouldn’t have gotten his claws so deep into you and….I wish I had known, I wish I had tried to write you, to figure out where you were when I didn’t hear, I…those years apart needn’t have been. If we at least had letters I could’ve come to the opera when I started living in Paris full-time.”</p><p>“Neither of us know what might have happened,” Christine says. “What matters is that we’re here now. We’re here together. We can’t look back at the past and say <em>what if? </em>I’ve spent so long looking back, Raoul. So long not living because I missed my father so much. Because I couldn’t see any further than the next day. But we don’t have to grieve each other. We don’t. We’re both here. I know we were both preparing for it, but it didn’t happen. We can have the dreams we talked about. The dreams you made me believe in.”</p><p>There’s a lightness in Christine’s voice, a hope that Raoul holds onto. She sits up, stretching the leg with her injured ankle out and pulling her other leg in. Christine crosses her legs so they can sit closer, and Raoul takes Christine’s face in her hands, pressing their foreheads together.</p><p>“When I was hanging in that noose, and I saw you kiss him, when I saw you get on your knees to beg him for my life even if it meant you would be trapped in hell, when you were kind to him even though he caused you so much pain,” Raoul says, her hands sliding back into Christine’s curls, and god, she never wants to let go. “One of my last coherent thoughts was how lucky I was, what a miracle it was, to have been loved by someone like you. I thought, <em>what shooting star did I wish on to earn that</em>?”</p><p>Christine starts crying. <em>Really </em>crying. Crying like she hasn’t since that night. She pulls away, taking one of Raoul’s wrists in hand and pressing a kiss to the bandage. First one, then the other.</p><p>“I was so afraid he would kill you anyway.” Tears drip from Christine’s eyes, and Raoul takes one shaking hand and carefully thumbs them away. “And then….the way he looked at you, when he let you down from the noose. Like he finally…like he finally saw you. Like he finally saw <em>me</em>. He studied himself in his mirror and saw himself and I thought…I thought <em>finally</em>, here is the man I thought I knew at first. But I never really knew him, did I? I still don’t. And yet I gave him my mind, anyway. My voice.”</p><p>Raoul toys with one of Christine’s curls. “He didn’t want you to know him. But you saw the decency in him, despite it all. The tragedy. Not many people could do that, Christine.”</p><p>Raoul’s not sure she can do it, but she knows it’s not so simple for Christine.</p><p>“I thought I at least knew his music.” Christine traces a pattern in the shape of a quarter note across Raoul’s thigh. “And then I realized that even that was tied up with what…” she shivers, memories of Don Juan dancing like shadows in her eyes. “…with what he wanted from me. I want…I want to untangle the music, mine, my father’s, from him. I think…I think I’m starting to, but my voice blossomed, under his tutelage. The music is what I can’t entirely erase from my mind. The way he sang.”</p><p>“You’ll find a way,” Raoul answers. “We’ll find a way. I promise you.”</p><p>“He wrote me a song.” Christine looks up, biting her lip again in that fearful way, and Raoul takes her hand, pressing it in reassurance that she isn’t angry. “He gave it to me before we rowed away. You were so hurt that I don’t think you saw.”</p><p>Raoul shakes her head. “I didn’t.” She barely remembers anything coherent from her journey in the little boat. Just small moments that fade to black.</p><p>“It’s in Juliette’s room,” Christine replies, glancing at the door. “And I…I don’t want to hear it. I don’t even know if I want to see it again. I…” she smiles, a bright thing among all this pain. “I want to hear the one you wrote.”</p><p>“You will.” Raoul coughs again, her body throbbing in protest from all the exertion. The low fever she had for the past two days finally broke this morning, but she’s still very unwell. Better than last week, but this, it seems, will be a longer journey than she likes. “One day I’ll be well enough to play it for you.”</p><p>Christine meets Raoul’s eyes before kissing her, and it can’t last long, Raoul isn’t strong enough, but warmth and life flood her chest when she kisses Christine back, unashamed, just now, of the tears gathering on her lashes.</p><p>“Rest,” Christine says softly when they break apart. “Please rest for me.”</p><p>Raoul agrees, getting back under the bed covers and laying on her side facing Christine. She shuts her eyes, leaning into the feeling of Christine stroking her hair. The ghost’s voice sounds somewhere in the back of her head, but for the first time in days, it isn’t so loud.</p><p> </p><p>
  
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  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>There are, according to my current calculations, three chapters left! I am, however, contemplating writing a sequel to this, so I will keep you all posted on that if I decide to!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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